Slake heard her before she saw her, the stomping and the bellowing, as she approached the Obelisk, the freshly slain marshfowl held carefully in her mouth. Thirst growled as they neared, hackles raised. She shook her head, and it fell silent.

What should she do, she wondered, step after reluctant step. Perhaps she should hide and wait? She didn't like another to see her ritual…but the marshfowl had already been slain, and if she waited, it would no longer be fresh.

Then she saw her, a striking white doe with a slate-dark helm, with spraying shards all over - just like her, but in brilliant red, like a spray of blood.

She was beautiful.

It was just that time of the month, and Blooded was in thrall of the glowing obelisk, in a violent frolic at its base, in its stark shadow against the afternoon sun. A ritualistic recreation of the pain, sorrow and rebirth of the sharded ones, invoking the agony of the crystals driving deep into flesh, and expelling its burden. It blended with her memories as a young foal, driven onto the snow as a child - the warmth of blood against her pelt, splattering like the shards that decorated her. Roars came from deep within, emergent from her open maw, uncontrollable; her hooves pounded the ground. As the shadow of the obelisk moved with the sun, she moved with it as well, and suddenly in the corner of her eye, she saw.

Someone else.

And - a rare emotion for her - she got somewhat embarrassed.

Just a little.

The doe stopped. She regretted her interference. The primal passion of her frenzied dance had enthralled her. Such a beautiful doe, in such bestial throes - such strength. It thrilled her.

And now it was over, and it was her fault.

She couldn't think of a thing to say. She stood there, helplessly, the marshfowl a mess of feathers in her mouth.

Thirst lost interest, and padded away.

Blooded watched the wolf wander away, and looked back at its owner proper. She looked just like the sun setting, burning into the sky, and she was so pretty it was hard to look at, just like the sun.

Her face went from embarrassed to grim because she found her so hard to look at. She was also holding a limp marshfowl, which was easy to focus on.

"What is...that for?"

At her words, Slake hastily put down the marshfowl to speak.

"A sacrifice," she said, her voice at first unsteady, then strengthening to continue, "for the Obelisk. Would it be alright? For me to do so here.

"I did not mean to interrupt. I am sorry."

"No," she said gravely, listening to her wavering voice because it was cute, "I was monopolising the Obelisk. Do go ahead - I too, should have brought a sacrifice."

She had never thought of bringing a sacrifice. It seemed right. If she were an Obelisk, she would also like a pretty doe sacrificing something to her.

She was nice. Slake was buoyed by that. Trying not to let her excitement show, she gravely asked:

"Would you like to sacrifice it together?"

She knew there were many rituals for the Obelisk. Many sharded Totoma, performing many things. The blood sacrifice was hers - she'd felt it in her…shards. The primal dance - that was this doe's. That was correct. This doe did not need to perform the blood sacrifice.

But she would like to do it with her, so she didn't elaborate.

Oh, she said together. That was very kind of her. She stepped forward and approached until she was a respectful few steps away, and turned to stand beside her.

She couldn't look at her, so she stared down at the marshfowl instead.

"Yes, thank you."

She started panicking as the doe came over, but to show it would be unseemingly, and maybe also frighten or disgust her. Instead, she nodded solemnly, and arranged the marshfowl with great meticulousness between them.

Head towards the Obelisk, feet towards the Mountains. Wings spread just so.

The routine calmed her. She tried to look at her, but couldn't quite manage, and dipped her head again, lightly placing her hoof upon the fowl.

She was so organised, pushing parts of the marshfowl here and there until it was perfectly placed. Yes, this is what the Obelisk deserved. She could never do that.

She watched her hoof until it was poised and paused upon the sacrifice, then looked up at her face briefly, regretted it and looked down again. Yes, that marshfowl was very dead, but very well-killed, wonderfully intact.

"How do you do this sacrifice?"

"I slit the throat, so that the blood may soak the foot of the Obelisk, and satiate its thirst," she explained.

She considered the bird, "you may slit the belly, so that the guts may spill, and satiate its hunger.

"Or," she added, thinking of her wonderful performance, "you may stomp it flat. Whichever you prefer."

Wonderful. She had such admiration for the poetry of her ritual, so elegant and symbolic of their pain. Her face went from wonder, to uncertainty at the mention of hoof dexterity, and ultimately brightened at the mention of stomping it flat. Well, she could certainly handle that.

"I would be more adept at stomping it flat, please."

"Yes," she sighed, "that would be perfect.

"I will slit the throat first, and as the blood flows, I will give you the signal. Are you ready?"

This was it. They were about to honour the Obelisk together. She felt like this deserved her utmost attention and sincerity.

So she looked up, and with greatest bravery, straight into her eyes.

"Yes, I am ready."

She looked down very quickly. If her cheeks were not already red, they would be flaming.

"I shall begin."

With a deliberate hoof, she drew the sharpest line across the marshfowl's throat. The blood welled forth, burbling like a spring. It gushed into the soil, darkening under and around the gleaming Obelisk.

She lowered her hoof, discreetly taking the deepest breath. Then, she, too, bravely looked up into the doe's beautifully bright eyes, and nodded.